Page 37 of The Pucking Arrangement

Absolutely not.

“No,” I say firmly.

But Ris is my daughter. And when my daughter wants something, she fights for it.

“Please, Papa! It’ll be so much fun! And I promise to behave!”

I shake my head.

The last time Erin was at a game, I was reckless. I devoted a celly to her. Flirted with twenty thousand people watching.

I cannot afford to be that man tonight. Not when I know how much harder this could get.

But then Erin shifts, crossing her arms under her chest, watching me carefully. She doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t push.

And maybe that’s why I crack.

Maybe it’s the quiet way she lets Ris fight her own battle.

Or maybe I’m just a fucking idiot.

I exhale sharply. “Fine.”

Ris cheers, throwing her arms in the air.

“But,” I warn, firm as steel, “you both stay with Sophie in the family box. No wandering, no surprises.”

Ris squeals in victory while Erin simply nods, placing a meticulously arranged plate in front of me—perfect rations of protein, carbs, and greens exactly how I’d prepare them myself.

She’s paying attention. But I don’t thank her. Don’t acknowledge how fucking domestic this feels as I quickly eat.

“Time for school,” I announce, finishing the last bite. “Finish your food, Amnushka.”

The drive to school is pure torture.

Ris and Erin are already a team. My daughter chatters endlessly, and Erin somehow keeps up, answering every question, feeding her curiosity without hesitation.

“Papa’s plus-minus is the best on the team! That means he’s really, really good!” Ris beams.

Erin glances at me, her green eyes bright with amusement. “Sounds like someone’s been studying the stats.”

I grunt, gripping the steering wheel tighter. The morning sun catches in her hair, turns it to molten copper, and the scent of her vanilla shampoo saturates the car, creeping into my lungs. Into my bloodstream.

“Papa taught me all about hockey numbers!” Ris pipes up. “Like Corsi and expected goals and...um...all the things that say who’s really the best!”

“Time for school, Amnushka,” I cut in as we pull up to the drop-off line. Any more of this domestic bliss, and I might fucking combust.

Erin hops out first, helping Ris with her backpack.

And then the gut punch.

My daughter throws her arms around Erin’s waist, hugging her tight.

I grip the steering wheel harder.

Erin doesn’t hesitate. She bends slightly, smoothing Ris’s wild curls, voice soft. Warm. “Have a great day, sweet girl. I’ll pick you up at three.”

Ris beams. “Okay!” And then she’s gone, skipping toward the entrance.

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